


The Eloquency of Dust (and John)

by lemortedmerthur (WhichWolfWins)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kidlock, M/M, Poetic, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, also, dust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 23:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/lemortedmerthur
Summary: Dust, Sherlock knew, meant many things. It was a handy tool in his research. It meant inattentiveness, it meant forgotten, it meant abandoned.





	The Eloquency of Dust (and John)

Like ash from a destructive volcano, dust blanketed every surface, smothering everything in its wake with layers of its fine, choking grey. The dust dulled the silver surfaces and it swirled in the long-abandoned room, disturbed, and it filled each breath he pulled into his small lungs, suffocating him.

With the fumbling feet of a child just shy of a toddler, he approached the tall tables, so high they avoided the top of his curled hair. On tip toes he stood to peer at the coating of grey on the once shiny surfaces. With a tentative touch, clumsy and small, he pressed the pad of his pointer finger against the soft dust. Like his mother’s face powder, it clung gladly to his skin, colouring him not a ghostly white, but a rather ghastly grey. It wiped easily from his fingertip onto his shirt. On the surface remained a light dusting that almost managed to hold the lines and whorls of his fingerprint, evidence that he was here. 

The room was a wasteland and it was the worst thing Sherlock had ever seen in his handful years of life. All the glass and plastic left to be buried like bodies; a metallic, powdery graveyard. He was ashamed of his mother for allowing such a thing to happen, and right beneath their very feet, too; he couldn’t look at the monstrosity a moment longer. Each day, they passed above their forgotten bodies, desecrating their final resting place with their ignorance. 

* * *

Sherlock sought refuge in the only place no one else could go (or even fit if they tried) - his pirate ship. He closed the wooden door and threw the lock (his own personal addition to his father’s creation) before immediately sinking against the door’s support and burying his face in his knees. 

He didn’t understand how his mother could do such a thing. Mycroft had taught him since he was a child to always think, that the work was most important of all, and yet his mother had allowed her work to waste away in the basement like a dying thing. And for what? A man? Children? Love? Sentiment, Sherlock thought with a sneer. 

A knock on the door made him press more fully against it, his body a barricade against the forces of ultimate evil. “Go away!” he shouted, his small voice sounding like a shrill wail. 

“Sherlock, love, what’s wrong?” 

Mummy. 

A bark alerted him to Redbeard’s presence outside and he realized too late his mother had come with backup. 

“Step away from the door,” he demanded. 

His mother sighed and he heard her dramatically shuffle back. “Okay, you can open it now.” 

Sherlock tentatively lifted the lock and cracked the door open. He peered out and saw his mum standing a few safe feet away with her hands raised. She wore an apron and not a lab coat. 

He glared and hurried Redbeard along by his collar before slamming the small door closed again and putting the lock down with a satisfying clack. 

“Sherlock, honey, it’s almost dinner time. You can’t stay in here all night.” 

“Yes, I can!” 

Another sigh and he heard his mother’s footsteps shuffle closer. He felt a thump against the door and could hear her sliding down to sit, leaning against the door opposite him. “What’s wrong, my boy?” 

“I don’t want to talk to you!” he shouted. 

He listened attentively for signs that his mother had left, but could hear nothing. 

“Mummy?” 

“Yes?” 

“Go away!” 

Her disappointment was made clear by yet another sigh and the sound of her grunting to her feet. The pirate ship shuddered as she braced against it for support. “Alright, love. Alright. I’m leaving. But don’t you think I’ll bring your dinner out to you, young man.” 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at the door and crossed his arms. He didn’t want her food, anyways. Food was rubbish. Eating was boring. 

Once he was certain his mother had gone, Sherlock turned his attention to his loyal first mate. Redbeard huffed and eased down to the floor, bringing his nose within reaching distance of Sherlock’s stubby child fingers. 

“Rough seas ahead,” Sherlock told him, patting the greying whiskers on his golden muzzle. 

They stayed in the ship until the sunlight no longer shone through the slats along the roof and the only source of lighting came from the single bulb on the ceiling. It gave off a dim yellow glow just bright enough to read by. 

Sherlock’s tummy gave yet another defiant growl and he lowered his book to eye the candy wrapper discarded on the floor, the chocolate licked clean off of the white inside. It had been the only thing left in the hull after several days of quiet repose in the ship previous. He’d been meaning to restock his stores and regretted it now as he thought of the meatloaf his mother had made. It was a favorite of his and he’d been looking forward to it ever since he’d seen her bustle in the ingredients from the shops. 

When Redbeard let out a soft whimper, Sherlock set down his book and gave his boy a pat before unlocking the cabin door. Redbeard left the ship and waited for Sherlock to join him in the moonlight, but Sherlock urged him on into the house. 

“The captain goes down with his ship,” he told his first mate, giving him a final salute before closing the door. He raised the jolly roger before settling in for a long night at sea. 

* * *

Dust, Sherlock knew, meant many things. It was a handy tool in his research. It meant inattentiveness, it meant forgotten, it meant abandoned. Without fail, it marked the passage of time. Entering the flat on Baker Street for the first time in two years, a finger across the bookcase said everything it hadn’t in his time away. People often used the phrase “if walls could talk”. To Sherlock, they did, the minute flecks of dust clinging to the wallpaper instead of swirling endlessly in the air telling him two years. 

Two years since he’d been there last, two years since the flat had been a home. It told him John had been here once, but never again. He could taste the years in the dust; the days filled his lungs. A hand to steady himself left a print in the ash of what had once been their’s - their bodies, their air, them. Their own personal pompeii. 

Sherlock heard a creak and cinders swirled in the air, alive again. He turned on the hardwood, his shoes slick on the once familiar floor, and a ghost took shape in the dust particles like smoke. 

A pause. Ghostly white looked back at ghastly grey, and, “You came back,” one of them said. 

“Of course I came back,” said the other. 

The dust became them once more, parting around them like an embrace. Grey hand gripped loose jumper and they came back to each other. 

* * *

Sherlock felt his body jostling as if on waves. In his sleep state, he cracked his eyes to see what, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t differentiate the night sky from the sea. All he knew was one thing for certain: he saw stars glittering like dust in the air.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a work in progress for a long time, because coming back to writing has also been. I have been away for a long time and I thought this fic seemed fitting for coming back to you guys.


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